


the war goes on (behind these walls)

by sirenofodysseus



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Brainwashing, M/M, attempted suicide, minor/major character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 14:18:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4709081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenofodysseus/pseuds/sirenofodysseus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In-between all of that managing, Cho never forgets how truly expendable they are. They will all die, eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the war goes on (behind these walls)

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to try my hand dystopia and because I'm a "dark and twisted individual" (not my words, trust me), I couldn't help but go down this path. 
> 
> Title comes from the song "Paper Dolls" by Rob Thomas.

_Happiness can exist only in acceptance_

George Orwell

::::

 

Lingering in the doorway, Cho says nothing to Lisbon. He keeps his gaze just above her head unblinkingly. He avoids the discoloration of her limbs, forgets the etching of scarsalongside her veins and he ignores the blood red lingerie outfit with its shreds of dark lace between her gaunt legs.

 

Instead, he tries to remember her as she _used_ to be—strong, steadfast and bursting with an unyielding amount of belief in the justice system. Not the caricature before him, who curls around herself and has attempted to take her own life _twice_ ; but he cannot—and he does not—for the brunet before him is simply a husk.

 

Eventually footfalls patter across the bare floor, _silence_ and then,

 

 “ _Fuck_.”

 

Cho glances away from piss-yellow walls (heavy with dents, pallets of reds) to find Rigsby.

 

_It_ has not changed Rigsby much, Cho thinks studying the brunet. He has lost weight and he is quieter, but he is still the same _caring_ and _naturally, good_ person he was before the Regime. Before the Regime dragged Van Pelt away from him, with her knuckles bleeding and her vocal cords strained; only for her to resurface (months later) as nothing more than a pretty-faced marionette.

 

(They try not to think about Van Pelt though.)

 

                “You’re safe,” Rigsby’s voice—soft and steady—interrupts the silence before Cho watches him _drop_ to his knees before her. Regardless of how precise his movements are, Lisbon always flinches and Rigsby’s frown always deepens. Cho shakes his head and their eyes meet. It is like clockwork.

 

She always flinches, he tries to communicate without words and without sounds; and as if he understands, Rigsby shifts and presses his fingers to Lisbon’s dotted wrists. She stills and Cho listens to him whisper, _“you’resafeyou’resafeyou’resafe”_ repeatedly until she sags against him and her eyelids close.

 

Cho glances away, his throat suddenly dry.

 

This (pining for the past) is going to kill me, he thinks and his expression hardens.

 

::::

 

In one bed, fitted with ratty nightclothes, they sleep. He sleeps on the right, Rigsby on the left and sometimes, Lisbon sleeps in-between them both. Crammed together on the twin-sized mattress with its bloodstained sheets and rusty springs, conserving body heat, it is a tight fit.

 

Considering the circumstances, however, they are lucky.

 

They could be dead.

 

Instead, they remain prisoners of convenience and they manage. They _manage_ with sweat-drenched sheets, fragmented wrists, empty stomachs and fingers stained yellow. Under constant surveillance and bated breaths, they _manage_.

 

In-between all of that _managing_ , Cho never forgets how truly expendable they are. They will all die, _eventually_ —but that day is not today.

 

Today, it is all about surviving. Its soft cursing and murmured reassurances and humming from the far left. It is sobbing, tensing, and shaking from the middle. And from his self, it is silent resignation of yet another restless night.

 

::::

 

                “I wish he’d just kill me already,” Lisbon mutters and she throws her battered fists against the wall.

 

Cho dabs the sweat from his brows.

 

The wall bleeds.  

 

::::

 

In the faux comforts of sheets and privacy, Rigsby whispers one night, “I saw Her today.”

 

                “Yeah?”

 

                “Yeah.”

 

Cho feels the bed shift beneath him, his eyes focusing on the ceiling again. “She looks happy.”

 

                “It’s not real.”

 

                “But what if it was?”

 

He shifts, until the space between them slowly shrinks.

 

                “It’s not.”

 

In the beginning, it was all persuasion and hypnotism. _The Regime knows what you want. The Regime knows what true happiness is._

 

Now, it is all drugs, beatings, and bloodlettings; and when desolation strikes, public executions to remind them all of what they cannot escape from. To remind them, happiness can exist only in acceptance.  

 

Rigsby sighs in frustration, twisting and turning until the blanket disappears. “I want it so badly to be.”

 

Cho brushes his fingers against Rigsby’s clenched fist; he stills and the warmth eventually returns.

 

                “She didn’t want happiness. She wanted you.”

 

“I know.”

 

(Rigsby’s fist unclenches and beneath the cover of darkness, their fingers touch.)

 

::::

 

Back before it all began, Sarah had given birth to a child—a beautiful baby boy named Benjamin Rigsby.

 

                “I’m worried I won’t be a good father,” Rigsby had confided in him, once, weeks before the birth. “What if my child hates me?”

 

                “You’d be like every other parent.”

 

Rigsby’s shoulder had knocked into his, both of them sitting on a park bench in an attempt to escape the bullpen for a while. “Not helping, man.”

 

Cho had awkwardly cleared his throat. “Sarah liked you enough to let you impregnate her.”

 

                “Yet, she won’t marry me.”

 

                “She knows you’re still in love with Van Pelt, Rigsby.”

 

Rigsby had sputtered, his pale skin rapidly reddening. “I’m not! I…”

 

                “I’m not Sarah,” Cho had interrupted. Rigsby’s mouth closed. “You don’t have to convince me.” He watched Rigsby’s shoulders slump. “Either way, Sarah’s pregnant. Van Pelt’s not.”

 

After a few moments of silence, Rigsby replied. “I didn’t want either of them pregnant, Cho. It’s too dangerous right now.”

 

                “It’s too late now. Also, Red John’s game is with Jane, not you.”

 

Rigsby had said nothing.

 

::::

 

In the piss-yellow room without windows, springs jab at his back and his breathing does little to abate the silence; but he _is_ alone. He flips past page-after-page of scripture before he shifts from side-to-side to hear _squeak—squeak_ – _squeak_.

 

Cho tries to concentrate on the words before him, but he _cannot_ ; his thoughts meander and he tries to recall the last book he read, outside of the Regime’s Scripture that they all own. He thinks and thinks and thinks, until the words before him become blurs on the crème page.

 

                “What in the _hell_ are you reading?” Rigsby interrupts.

 

Cho shrugs, avoiding Rigsby’s stare—imaging the vein throbbing in Rigsby’s neck at the sight of _The Book_. “What else is there to read?” He barely blinks when the book disappears from his hands.

 

Against the wall, it hits.

Against the floor, it thuds.

 

                “What happened?”

 

                “Nothing.”

 

                “I get it,” Rigsby mutters and Cho does not doubt it. “But let me help you, Kimball.” And suddenly, there’s a damp cloth pressed to his swollen jaw. Rigsby is kneeling before him and for a moment, Cho considers telling him the truth.

 

(But, he does not because _that_ kind of honesty here is dangerous.)

 

                “ _I lost it,”_ becomes “I fell.”

 

And _“I don’t believe that for a moment,”_ becomes “Okay.”

 

::::

 

In a chair, by the lit stove, Rigsby already sits.

 

Cho joins him. “You should sleep.”

 

                “So should you.”

 

(Neither of them ever does.)

 

::::

 

                “You’re _alive_ ,” Rigsby shouts at Lisbon, hands trembling. “You’re alive and he’s not!” There is silence, sobbing, and more screaming, before Rigsby grabs her neck tight and in that moment, Cho imagines that he is _choking the life out of Patrick Jane and Red John_. “I lost _my_ son, because of your _trust_ in Him.”  

 

::::

 

“And here, I had thought it was all an act,” Lorelei Martins had said about Jane, before the restrained brunet had tossed a smile at Lisbon. “How does it make you feel, Agent Lisbon, to realize that Patrick Jane has been aiding Red John for months now?”

 

Lisbon had said nothing.

 

“Personally, I’d be furious,” Martins had continued, shifting backwards until her restraints had clattered against the interrogation room table. “Thinking I could trust Patrick, only for him to show me his true colors?” Martins’ smile had grown, until Lisbon had slammed her fists down on the interrogation table. “Last time that Red John and Patrick had met, Red John had seen such a promise in Patrick. I am glad he’s finally come to his senses, as Red John always gets what he wants.” Martins’ winked. “In the end, anyway.”

 

“As I recall,” Lisbon had replied, crossing her arms against her chest. “Jane pushed you from the limo. Did Red John want that?” Martins had lost her smile. “I suppose I should thank him though. We have been after Red John for eight long years; and what does Jane finally give us? He gives us a living Red John acolyte.” Lisbon had shaken her head. “Do you truly think your Master will waste his time on saving you?”

 

Martins had jerked forward, her teeth clenched together. “You’ll pay for your disrespect one day, Teresa. I’ll make sure of it.”

::::

 

Sometimes, he is lonely and then— _with a cry of euphoria and a spread of calloused fingers inside him_ —he is not.

 

                _“I’m not gay,” Rigsby had attempted to explain it once, afterwards. Both of them, with their legs still entangled and lips swollen, had stared up at the stained ceiling in sullen resolute. “Every time I think about him, it feels as if I’m drowning all over again.” Cho had said nothing, his fingers trailing Rigsby’s bare thigh. “Help me forget.”_

In those brief moments of comradery and comfort, Cho often thinks about natural selection. He thinks about the process of elimination also and _who_ , amongst the three of them,will be next.

 

Only the strongest can—, he thinks, but he never fully completes _that_ thought.

 

::::

 

“How do you think this will all end?”

 

                "We die."

 

And for the first time in months, Rigsby smiles.


End file.
